


The Maere

by lovelier



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Death, Fantasy, Greek myth - Freeform, Monster - Freeform, Mythology - Freeform, Nightmare, Other, REALLY short story, Short Story, idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:44:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4584726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelier/pseuds/lovelier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, overly dramatic piece I wrote for my freshman English class upon finishing the Odyssey. About a monster- if she can be called that- known simply as the Maere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Maere

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is unedited, left exactly as it was turned in for my Odyssey project. Let's not make fun of the four required epithets and hyperboles. Thank you. Freshman Sofia appreciates it.

They call her the Maere. The Lady of the Night, the Dark one, a Stygian entity. She is a nightmare. She is your worst fear, personified. She makes your life a living hell; she warps your vision, toys with your mind, messes with your memories. The Maere is coming for you, and you are powerless to stop it.

She hides among us, blending into the crowds and hiding amongst forgettable faces and nameless strangers. She, however, is anything but forgettable. Pretty red lips (the precise shade of the blood she will take from you) and darkened lashes (they frame eyes deep and dark enough for you to fall into headfirst). You are drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

Who can blame you? You see what you want to see, and in this case, a girl with dark hair, dark eyes and a sultry smirk stands before you, a wordless invitation in her eyes.

You fail to notice the hungry expression or the blood-tipped fingernails. The sharpened teeth. The frame that suddenly seems much more skeletal than it did a few moments ago.

The voice in the back of your head warns you to run. To run like the devil is on your heels. (She can do more harm to you than the devil. You do not know, or even seem to care.)

But then she speaks, and you forget everything.

She has a voice like velvet. It beckons you, captivates you, bewitches you.

She tells you to follow, turns in those impossibly tall shoes, strides into the moonless night.

You will regret following her.

She smiles again. The dark eyes suddenly seem much less human (they are filled with something primeval, something dreadful). T

hat is when you feel your first prickle of apprehension.

She speaks again, and you scream. (No one is around to hear you. She is smarter than that.)

Unspeakable things, hellish illusions. You feel your heart twist and your stomach convulse. You will wish you were dead.

Fear is worse than death. Nightmares hurt more than bullet wounds.

And yet, you are one of the lucky ones; the Maere only watches you writhe on the ground, contemptuous.

She does not take you home, like she does so many of the others. You do not become her pet, her source of entertainment for when prey is scarce. (your fear does not taste good enough)

You are disposable, and she does love to dispose of pretty little things like you.

All pretenses abandoned, she Changes. She is a creature of the Night, of Horror, the stuff that nightmares are made of. She _is_ the Nightmare.

Your screams go unheard. She pounces, a horrible smile etched across her face. Her teeth tear into your veins, and she stands, covered in your blood.

Laughs, then leaves.


End file.
